"The Sun"

The sun forces its orange kiss,

against my brow.

The beads of sweat,

becoming a temptress to my tongue.

The thirst clenching my throat,

drying my lips brittle from exhaust.

I fell to my knees, lifted my head up,

lifted it up—in surrender to the God,

or perhaps Gods,

Who had painted this red portrait,

swathed in blisters.

I felt my skin shrink with the desert crust.

The sun,

Looks a lot like me now—right?

Swathed in blisters—red?

I dropped upon my back,

reached out for the sun,

clutched it tight,

between my pathetic hands.

I forced it against my body.

The sun jerked its orange lips,

away from my brow.

I imposed its flesh against my skin—

to tempt it.